


Bitter Medicine

by Quantumphysica



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But Mostly Curufin, Celebrimbor Is Awkward, Cousincest, Curufin has issues, Finrod Loves Everyone, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sickfic, The Author Regrets Nothing, mind healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantumphysica/pseuds/Quantumphysica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way to Nargothrond, Curufin suffers a poisoned wound. Things take a turn from there… </p><p>This is the Nargothrond sick!fic nobody asked for. You're welcome!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



The first refugees came to Nargothrond in small groups; displaced, frightened people with the remnants of their possessions on their backs and tales of fire and dread on their tongues. Ard-Galen and Dorthonion were lost to the fell fires of Thangorodrim. Maedhros’ valiant defence of the Pass of Aglon hadn’t stopped Morgoth’s filth from spreading further into Beleriand. Maglor’s Gap was ravaged, Thargelion defiled beyond healing. The losses were countless. Finrod knew he had two brothers to mourn, but the onslaught had been such that he hadn’t had a single moment to grieve. He tried not to think about it. Yet as the tidings of battle that trickled in along with the refugees became bleaker by the day, it became harder and harder not to give in to despair. He knew not what realms still stood against the Black Foe, nor how many still lived outside of Nargothrond. For all he knew the few scattered survivors he had welcomed past his gates were all what remained of their people...

When word came of the first truly large groups of refugees on their way to Nargothrond, he dared to let himself to hope. Reports had been made of several thousands of people. If that many had made it out of the ruins of the east, perhaps not all was lost. It was said the groups bore the silver star of Fëanor on their shredded banners, but if and if so which sons of Fëanor were among them was as of yet uncertain. Only when they arrived at the gates Finrod found that not one but two Fëanorian cousins had made it to his realm. He could immediately tell they hadn’t made it unscathed though... Celegorm and Curufin shared a horse, the blond holding the reins in one hand and his younger brother against his chest with the other. Curufin’s right arm was held in a makeshift sling, and when they dismounted it was obvious he could barely stand. The brothers only just made it to the entrance before his legs gave way and sent him to his knees. Having been a healer for longer than he had been a King, Finrod wasted no time on pleasantries. His training kicked in, and in a moment he sat before the wounded Fëanorian, making note of his flushed skin, ragged breathing and dilated pupils, along with the nasty smell of the haphazardly bandaged wound on his arm. He looked up at Celegorm. The blond was pale.

“We were ambushed, a half a day from here. He took an arrow to the arm, but we were in the thick of the fight and the wound seemed minor. By… By the time we could remove the head the damage was done.”

“Poison.”

Celegorm nodded weakly.

“We tried to draw it from the wound, but…”

He didn’t have to say any more. A roadside refugee camp hardly lent itself to any medical treatment more extensive than bandaging cuts; so close to Nargothrond they would have just tried to make way quickly, hoping the more severely wounded would survive until arrival. As Curufin was hastily carried off to the healing halls, Finrod read the unspoken question in the elder Fëanorian’s eyes.

“He’ll make it.”

They both knew it was an empty reassurance. Poison was tricky, especially if it hadn’t been timely treated, and his healers were still trying to figure out antidotes to most of the new poisons this disastrous battle had confronted them with. In the past days, Finrod had seen people enter his realm with barely a scratch from an orcish sword or arrow, and die in agony mere hours later. With the state Curufin was in already, the odds were hardly in his favour…

… … … … … …

Many of the new arrivals had been wounded in some way or other, and the healers had called upon every pair of capable hands to help take care of the injured. Finrod too helped wherever he could. His advisers could arrange the logistic side of the sudden population increase perfectly well without him for now; he was of greater use in the healing halls. He had just cleaned out and stitched a dangerously infected gash in one warrior’s leg when commotion sounded on the other end of the halls.

“Keep him down!”

“NO! LET ME GO! Let me go you spawns of Morgoth! NO!”

“Brother, you have to calm down, we are only trying to help you!”

In the secluded corner where they had put Curufin, two healers were trying their best to subdue the now violently trashing Fëanorian, but even with Celegorm’s help the more slightly built healers had trouble keeping the tall, forge-trained elf on the bed. The tangled sheets were stained with blood from the reopened arrow wound, and when Finrod approached he could feel panic radiate from the hysterically fighting ellon, along with the heat of fever.

“What is going on here?”

The healer closest to the door barely escaped a kick in the face when he turned to see who had entered.

“My King!” The elf ducked for a flailing arm. “He seemed calm enough at first, until we tried to redress the wound. It’s the poison. He couldn’t…” The healer made another evasive manoeuvre to avoid getting punched, “He couldn’t even stand at first and now he’s… Lord Celegorm, hold down his legs!” Slightly out of breath his colleague finished for him, “Now he’s like this.”

Curufin’s gaze was wild and frightened, like a rabid animal. The fever and poison had clouded his mind to the point where he no longer understood what was happening to him, and every touch was perceived as an attack. As Finrod approached the bed, one of the healers moved to stop him.

“My Lord, he is uncontrollable, you…”

He shook his head.

“Let me near him.”

Feeling his cousin’s mind struggle and lash out blindly through a haze of pain and confusion, he gently pressed his own mind against Curufin’s, Though at first it seemed to frighten him more, the soft mental touch soothed the Fëanorian’s overheated thoughts like a cold compress, and soon enough he stopped fighting against the healers. Finrod carefully came closer.

_“Sssh… That’s it. You’re safe. You don’t need to fight. Sssh...”_

Curufin didn’t recoil when Finrod’s fingers softly stroked the clammy skin of his face, and when the king reached for the wound in his arm, the only reaction was a weak wail of pain. He sent the older elf a wave of reassurance.

_“Don’t be afraid. Hold on to me. Sssh… Forget the pain. Just hold on to me.”_

The healers looked on in wonder, Celegorm in suspicion, as Finrod removed the filthy bandages and skilfully disinfected and redressed the wound with minimal resistance from his patient. All the while, he felt his cousin’s mind brokenly cling to his own, desperate for comfort. As soon as the wound was dressed again, he gently nudged him to sleep. Then he politely dismissed the other healers.

“He is all right for now. Go. There are many more wounded who need your attentions.”

They left with a small bow. Celegorm frowned.

“What did you do to him?”

“I calmed his mind. He will sleep for now.” Finrod looked over the dishevelled blond before him. “And so should you. There is nothing more you can do for him, and you look like you haven’t even washed since you arrived.”

“I won’t leave him.”

Other words remained unspoken, but Celegorm did no effort to shield his thoughts.

_I will not leave him defenceless. There are those here that would see him dead._

He sighed.

“Very well. I will have food and fresh clothes brought to you here then.”

He wished he could honestly say that Celegorm was wrong, that none of his people would do harm on the sons of Fëanor… but he knew the truth was different. Even in the face of their current misery the Helcaraxë was all but forgotten. While he dearly hoped that none of his subjects would outright commit kinslaying, nothing prevented them from giving the wounded Fëanorian just a little less care. With Curufin’s present condition, that could be enough to do the trick.

As he pensively looked at the still form of his cousin, Celegorm followed his eyes.

“Findarato. Please be honest to me. What are the chances he’ll survive?”

His face was impassive, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his worry. Finrod sighed again.

“I don’t know. The wound is clean; what is left of the poison is already in his system. There is no antidote. We can only try to keep the fever down and hope he is strong enough to metabolize it.”

Some poisons killed in minutes. Some killed in hours. And some drew death out so long it was a relief when the victim finally passed on. Curufin was strong… but only time would tell if he stood any chance of living through this.

… … … … … … 

Accompanied by Huan, Celegorm held vigil at Curufin’s bedside. This much to the healers’ displeasure, who complained about being glared, yelled and growled at whenever they weren’t fast or careful enough for his lordship’s taste, about the enormous dog being in their way, and even about having to care for the younger Fëanorian in the first place. Most had seen too many succumb to poison to think it anything but a lost cause. Meanwhile, Curufin’s son Celebrimbor had rather admirably taken charge of the newly settled refugees, negotiating the terms and conditions for their stay with the council of advisers. The youngest member of the Fëanorian line certainly knew how to hold his own against the politicians of Nargothrond… but Finrod could tell it weighed on him. When he found the young smith in the healing halls, standing hesitantly at his father’s door, he kindly put a hand on his shoulder.

“Tyelpë.”

Celebrimbor startled.

“My Lord!”

Finrod shook his head.

“None of that, we are not in the council here. Just call me Findarato. I don’t insist on formality with my own family.”

“O-Of course.”

He nodded at the door.

“Why don’t you go inside? Maybe you could convince your uncle to take a rest, the healers would be grateful for the reprieve.”

“I…” Celebrimbor hesitated. After a stretch of silence he finally he said, “That arrow was meant for me. It would have hit me straight in the chest if… if he hadn’t pushed me out of the way.”

Finrod tightened his grip on the younger elf’s shoulder.

“It was not your fault.”

Celebrimbor shook his head.

“I know that. It’s just…” He looked at Finrod with sorrowful eyes. “I never thought he would do that. Not for me. I didn’t think he cared that much. Isn’t that a terrible thing to think, as a son?” He took a shaky breath. “He… He might die because he had my back, and all this time I thought he couldn’t care less what happened to me.”

“Oh Tyelpë…” Finrod softly shook his head. “I know your father can be a difficult man, but you must never doubt he loves you. He would have taken far more than that arrow to protect you.”

A tear ran down Celebrimbor’s cheek.

“I know that, now. But…”

The guilt in his eyes was almost like pain. Instinctively, Finrod drew him into an embrace. Stroking the younger one’s dark tresses, he whispered.

“Go inside, Tyelpë. Don’t wait. Take every moment you can and pray to the Valar that none is the last.”

“The Valar have forgotten about us.”

“Don’t say that. You are all still alive. You made it here against all odds. The Valar have not forgotten about us, Tyelpë. I refuse to believe it.”

“Sometimes I fear good things only come to us to lead us to greater evil.”

“No. You must not think like that. Good things come to us to make the evil bearable.” He smiled weakly. “Now go inside. And do try to get your uncle to rest, lack of sleep makes him paranoid.”

As Celebrimbor cautiously opened the door, Finrod thought about the smith’s words. The prophecy of Mandos echoed in his thoughts. _To evil end shall all things turn they begin well…_ Walking back to his own chambers, he suppressed the sense of premonition that niggled on the edge of his mind. The Sight was a treacherous thing when one was haunted by melancholy. In times as dark as these, it was often better not to know too much.  

 … … … … … … 

Later that day, Finrod got a visit in his quarters from Huan, who seemed very adamant that he followed him. So adamant in fact, that when he didn’t get the hint after a couple gentle nudges, the huge dog resorted to other means of achieving compliance. After multiple failed attempts at freeing his robes from the huge dog’s jaws, the king just went with it. Huan led him to Curufin’s chamber in the healing halls, where Celegorm had apparently succumbed to sleep at last. The blond Fëanorian hung half out of his chair, neck and limbs uncomfortably bent, eyes half-lidded in total exhaustion. Finrod winced at the sight. His cousin was going to be in serious pain when he woke up… He looked at his canine companion.

“Is that why you came for me? Do you want me to put him in bed?”

Huan nodded his head. Finrod smiled.

“That can be arranged, I think. Give me just a moment.” After retrieving a couple things from the apothecary, he carefully shook the blond awake.

“Tyelkormo… Tyelkormo, wake up…”

“Hmmn…” His cousin groaned, blearily blinking up at him. “Findarato…? I… I fell asleep… I m-must…” He moved to sit up straight again, wiping the hair from his face. “Thank you for waking me, I can’t… can’t sleep now…”

Finrod sent him a winning smile.

“Of course, cousin. Here, drink something.”

Celegorm gratefully accepted the glass offered and downed it in one go. A moment later he blinked in confusion, his gaze rather unfocused all of a sudden.

“F-Findarato… W-What did you…”

“You need to rest now. Sleep will do you good.”

Understanding what had happened, Celegorm managed to look deeply betrayed before the sleeping draught took full effect and his eyes hazed over in unconsciousness. As he slumped forward, Finrod comfortingly patted his head.

“Sweet dreams, cousin. And I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me after a nice stretch of bed rest.”

He called for a couple servants, who carried the unconscious Fëanorian to bed accompanied by a very satisfied Huan. With how completely at his end Celegorm had been, physically as well as mentally, Finrod estimated he’d be out cold for at least a day, if not longer. He doubted the blond had rested much on the way to Nargothrond, and he had definitely not slept since he was here. Looking at Curufin, whose condition was still worryingly unchanged, he sadly smiled.

“Your brother is taking a nap, I’m afraid. Healer’s orders. You’ll have to make do with me for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what I was thinking when I came up with this story. I blame exam stress. Also, my significant other. I asked him if I should write Finrod/Turgon or Finrod/Curufin, and he picked the latter option. Please tell me if it's any good?
> 
> PS: For those who are interested: I'm still working on A Borrowed Voice, don't worry! This story pretty much writes itself (which is worrying me, actually… is it sloppy?) and seems to require much less mental effort. It's something of a thought exercise to keep writer's block at a distance ^_^


	2. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod refuses to let Curufin die…

When one of the healers brought a platter with food into Curufin’s room, she was surprised to find her king there rather than the ill-mannered Fëanorian with his enormous dog. Finrod in his turn was surprised to see what was on the platter. For the attendant there was a bowl of hearty stew and a chunk of bread, for the patient a bowl of light broth. He raised an eyebrow at the healer.

“Does he not need to take medicine along with his food?”

“He does, my king. A tincture was added to the broth.”

Checking that, Finrod did taste a hint of characteristic bitterness in the soup. He still wondered though.

“That’s not a very efficient way of administering it.”

The healer defended herself.

“It’s the only way that works. We’ve honestly tried everything else, but short of his brother forcefully shoving the herbs down his throat and almost throttling him to keep him from retching, there is no other way he’ll take the medicine without spitting it out. The taste is very hard to mask.”

Finrod was aware that the herbs used in treating fever tasted rather terrible; even with copious amounts of honey or sugar mixed in it, the medicine was still notably bitter. However, a moderately conscious person could generally be convinced to take it for their own good despite the bitterness, and patients who were too far off to reason with tended to not care about the taste. Of course Curufin had to be an unfortunate exception to the last category… He nodded to the nervous healer.

“I understand.”

When she left, Finrod set to feeding Curufin. It turned out to be a more difficult task than he had expected though, and when after an hour his cousin had barely eaten even half of the broth, he decided to change his approach. If this was how the medicine had generally been administered it was hardly surprising the fever didn’t break; Curufin received only a fraction of the necessary dose... With a plan in mind, Finrod cleared himself a table in the healing halls’ apothecary and set to work. After preparing all the necessities for the medicine, he sent someone to the kitchens.

“Please get me a roll of sugar paste. The one the cooks use to decorate pastry for feast days, I know they always keep some on hand. Tell them it’s for a medical emergency.”

A little later he had an entire bowl of small balls with a core of concentrated medicinal mixture, each wrapped in an even layer of sugar paste. Finrod felt a little proud of the idea. Curufin wouldn’t taste a thing of the herbs unless he chewed them, yet he’d still get a high dose of the medication. Now he only had to get his stubborn cousin to swallow them…

… … … … … … 

This of course turned out much harder than it looked. Frustrated, Finrod frowned at the barely conscious Fëanorian, who despite his state of diminished awareness still managed to keep him from feeding him the new concoction.

“It’s like you know I’m trying to give you medicine. What are you, a ten year old elfling?” He sighed. “Being sick clearly does nothing for your character.”

It wasn’t an entirely fair assessment, but Finrod would be the first to admit that exasperation did nothing for _his_ character. He quietly observed Curufin. The Fëanorian was deathly pale, the only colour in his face being the feverish blush on his cheeks. His silver grey eyes were glazed and faraway, the light of the trees unnaturally bright in them. His brow was furrowed as if in pain, and he weakly twitched as shivers ran through his body. With a heavy heart, Finrod could see why the healers felt his cousin was a lost cause. Curufinwë Atarinkë had always been a powerful presence, sharp and bright like his father, dominant and authoritative with a treacherous edge. Yet now he looked… breakable. A vulnerable, fragile thing in need of care and protection. It was almost surreal.

Finrod gently smoothed the lines of pain in his cousin’s face. He could feel his mind, grasping blindly in the midst of dark fever dreams, lost and frightened. If the fever didn’t break, there was little chance of him surviving…

“Your brother will murder me if you die while I knocked him out. I hope you realize that.”

Just as he wanted to pull away his hand, Finrod’s eye fell on the dish of medicine. Glancing back at Curufin, a sudden, crazy plan formed. He rolled one of the sugar-coated balls between his fingers.  

“If your brother ever finds out I tried this he will probably murder me as well, but then at least he can’t fault me for not trying everything.”

With that, he popped the thing in his own mouth and bent over the Fëanorian, pressing a soft kiss on his lips. Sensually running the tip of his tongue over them, he tried to pry them apart with gentle persuasion. Much to his surprise Curufin quickly yielded to it, warm lips parting with a shuddering sigh. Finrod deepened the kiss in response, the sweetness of the medicine’s slowly dissolving sugar coat mingling with the unfamiliar, strangely enticing taste of his cousin. It was a pleasant kiss, warm, slow, and attentive. He almost felt regret when he slyly slipped the drug in Curufin’s mouth and broke contact as soon as he swallowed it.

Despite the fevered haze in his eyes, Finrod could swear Curufin gave him the exact same betrayed expression as his brother had. It was almost funny. Almost. The taste of him lingered though, soft and slightly salty on his tongue… and as he licked his lips, some disconcerting part of him really wanted to kiss the Fëanorian again, and properly this time. The king of Nargothrond dazedly shook his head to himself.

“I… probably should not have done that.”

He definitely should not have enjoyed it so much…

… … … … … … 

The medicine seemed to work, and the rest of the day Curufin slept, his fever relatively under control. That night however, Finrod was drawn from reverie by the sound of panicked, breathless gasps. Terror not his own gripped his mind before he could close himself to it, waking him more effectively than a foghorn next to his ear. In the bed, Curufin was shivering uncontrollably. His eyes were frightfully bright and wide in fear as he fought to breathe, hands clawing wildly at the sheets with every spasm that shot through him. Heat radiated from his skin like a fell miasma. Finrod instantly knew he had no time to lose. Yelling for the healer on night duty to draw a cold bath, he hurriedly stripped his cousin out of the sweat-soaked bedding.

_“Breathe, Curvo. Please. You need to breathe.”_

There was fire in his cousin’s mind, scorching flames that devoured him from within. Finrod could feel him scream inside his head, overcome with burning agony. He was so lost in the delirium that his body was suffocating itself, forgetting how to draw breath, forgetting everything except pain and panic…

_“You NEED to breathe. Please!”_

Before he even realized it, Finrod had drawn the shuddering elf in his arms and mashed their minds together, uncaring of the raging fire. Straining himself, he pulled what he could feel of Curufin close to him, forming a soft, safe cocoon for his cousin’s tormented mind. Then, he calmly ordered with all the mental power he could muster,

_“Breathe, Curufinwë. Now.”_

And Curufin breathed, his body obeying the simple command when his conscious mind couldn’t. Seeing that the bath was ready, Finrod picked him up and carefully lowered him in the tub, not breaking their mental connection. When Curufin seized up in the icy water and tried to fight against the biting cold, he simply stepped in as well, taking him in a comforting embrace.

_“Sssh… Keep breathing. I’m here. There is nothing else. Just breathe.”_

Finrod gently held him in mind as well as in body, letting the water do its work until the fire in his fëa died down and his skin no longer burned at the touch. The moment his temperature dropped and he broke free of the fiery delirium, a broken sob escaped the Fëanorian.

_“F-Find-darato…”_

He clung to him, and Finrod didn’t have the heart to break the mental contact he so desperately seemed to need. He soothingly stroked Curufin’s hair.

_“Sssh. I’m here.”_

Coming out of the water, he wrapped Curufin in a blanket and shed his own sopping robes, uncaring of what the assisting healer might think. Sitting on the bed he cradled his cousin close like a child, letting his dark head rest against his chest while he softly brushed his fingers through his hair.

“You ought to take your medicine again, cousin.”

He only got a soft murmur in response as Curufin nestled a little closer, curling up against him. Their minds were closely linked, reassuringly tangled with each other. Finrod knew, in the back of his mind, that this was too intimate a sort of contact for a healer to engage in with a patient, especially a patient not capable of conscious consent. But all the same, he didn’t want to end it. When he had carefully probed for mental damage done by the fever, he had found injuries too old and extensive to be caused by merely a week of delirium. Curufin’s very being was damaged; the Oath he had taken, the losses he had suffered and the deeds he had done in its name had left grisly scars on his fëa. Finrod tenderly kissed his cousin’s head. For all that he abhorred the kinslaying and had suffered on the ice for Fëanor’s insanity, he wouldn’t deny one so broken a reprieve from his pain. He reached for the medicine dish on the side table.  

“I wasn’t kidding. We have to keep the fever down or you’ll need another impromptu ice bath soon.”

This time Curufin swallowed the sugar-wrapped medicine without problems. Finrod hastily suppressed the thought that this was a bit of a pity. Comforting a broken soul was one thing. Having disturbing thoughts about your incapacitated cousin was something entirely else…

… … … … … … 

Celebrimbor, who had been woken for fear that Curufin wouldn’t make the night, almost thought he was still dreaming when he opened his father’s room in the healing halls. Comfortably cuddled up in Finrod’s arms was his father, wrapped in a blanket, head resting against the blond’s bare chest. The king was singing him a soothing lullaby while carefully working his fingers through his tangled hair. Curufin seemed to be completely relaxed under the tender ministrations, his eyes heavy-lidded and hazed in drowsy content. Finrod in turn was entirely absorbed in the task of combing the knots from his cousin’s humid tresses, a small smile playing on his lips as he sang. It was an odd scene for sure, but also oddly… affectionate. Celebrimbor felt he was too much before he even set foot in the room. Before either of them noticed his presence, he quietly closed the door again. He wasn’t sure what it was he had seen, but it sure as hell was none of his business.

Outside the healing halls, he unexpectedly ran into Orodreth, whose sudden appearance scared the living death out of him. He almost screamed when the lithe blond stepped out of a shadowy nook. His fright went entirely past the perpetrator though, who kindly nodded his head at him in greeting.

“Tyelperinquar. I heard about your father.”

Celebrimbor smiled a little shakily.

“Ah, yes… It seems the healers were mistaken. I’m quite certain he will live.”

Orodreth quietly nodded again.

“You must be glad.”

Elves were all relatively light on their feet, but Angrod’s son had a particular gift for creeping up on people. This generally by accident, for although the beautiful ellon was silent and so unobtrusive he could have been invisible, he didn’t seem to have a sneaky bone in his body. In the dark he was more than a little scary though.

“Yes, of course.”

Celebrimbor wasn’t sure what to think of him. Orodreth had neither the steel of his father nor the fire of his closest uncle; with his delicate, feminine features and tranquil mannerisms he wasn’t the slightest bit warlike. He was the sort of man his father tended to scoff at. But in the council meetings, Celebrimbor had observed that Orodreth was not the fool many took him for. He knew very well when he was being slyly mocked, passed by in decisions or done injustice. He probably knew much more than any of the more outspoken councilmembers suspected. And yet… he never defended himself and simply allowed everyone to walk over him. It was rather mystifying. The fair-haired lord gave him a small, polite nod, breaking him from his thoughts.

“I will leave you to your business. Good night, Tyelperinquar.”

His voice was even, but there was sadness in his eyes. Celebrimbor wasn’t sure why he spoke up.

“Wait. Please. I… I could use some company tonight. If you don’t mind.” Orodreth turned back, a raised eyebrow marring the impassive beauty of his face. Nervously, the young smith added, “And please call me Tyelpë. Everyone does.”

The inquiring look eased away and turned to a slight, barely noticeable smile.

“You are free to join me. Do you enjoy the library, Tyelpë?”

Celebrimbor wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to when he followed Orodreth to the great library halls of Nargothrond. But it was the middle of the night, and for whatever reason, he didn’t want to be alone right now.

 … … … … … … 

Finrod held Curufin in his arms until the fever was down to manageable levels and he was sure there would be no relapse. By then the Fëanorian’s whole mind was heavy with sleep, barely holding on to a scrap of awareness. From the way he dazedly smiled, Finrod guessed it wasn’t a bad state to be in. He pensively caressed his cousin’s face. Tiredness had smoothed out the sharpness of his features; there was no glint of calculation in his eyes now, no streak of arrogance in his expression. He looked almost... innocent, like this. Younger than his years. His likeness to Fëanor was undiminished though. Finrod hesitated for a moment, his fingers lingering in the tender touch. Curufin was the very image of his father, but he was also unmistakably himself. There was something in his features that was wholly _Curufin_ and no one else. It was clear enough to him… yet somehow he didn’t think many people saw it. The thought made him inexplicably sad.

With a sigh, Finrod started to mentally dislodge himself. It was bad enough that he had made and deepened so intimate a connection without permission; the least he could do was not indulge in it. And apart from all the ethical and consent-related issues he had conveniently ignored so far, if he remained this closely tangled with Curufin he was sure to fall asleep as well, and he didn’t want to be found half naked in his sick cousin’s bed. Never mind that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. People would talk enough as it was. 

_“Findarato…”_

Curufin’s mental voice was dreamy and faraway, breaking through the comfortable quiet just when he wanted to let go of his hold on the older elf. He answered cautiously.

_“I’m here.”_

_“Please… stay.”_

It was nothing short of a plea. Finrod sighed again.

_“Of course.”_

Though he mentally let go as soon as the Fëanorian was too fast asleep to notice, and properly redressed at the first hints of sunrise, he stayed by his side until the sun was well up. Then he relinquished his role to a very curious looking Celebrimbor, and dignifiedly walked back to his own quarters with nary a word. And if anyone wondered why his robes were wet and had a suspiciously dog-bite shaped rip, they didn’t ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we have the first hints of Finrod/Curufin... 
> 
> A small thing about Finrod's mind-powers and what the hell he is doing to Curufin. This is important later on. The whole mind-contact thing is normally not done without consent because it's far more intimate than just a mental touch or a shared thought. This is why Finrod doesn't feel entirely okay doing it. The only reason he could do it so easily here is because Curufin was completely terrified and his mental protections were torn to shreds in the fever. (As you may have suspected from the tone of this story, the intimacy thing is really important.)
> 
> On a side note, I wish Finrod was my healer. I would make sure to always be very, very reluctant to take my medicine. (Wouldn't we all?) xD
> 
> Oh, and also...
> 
> Suddenly...
> 
> Orodreth!
> 
> Like Suddenly Salad, but elvish. I don't know where he came from. I had never written him before, but all of a sudden he was there, popping up out of nowhere in this story like the unintentional creeper he is. Before I knew it I had this headcanon of him where he is beautiful in this really feminine way (which is saying something for an elf), and super unobtrusive, and a doormat to everyone who is more confident and outspoken. Also, he has a really impassive face, a bit like a marble statue, which makes it really hard to tell what he thinks. (Which is why there is doubt among the nobles of Nargothrond whether he actually ever thinks anything.) He's a bit weird. I have no idea what other people's headcanons are for Orodreth -he's generally a bit of an ignored character- so... what do you think? 
> 
> And of course, Celebrimbor is an awkward. He's almost as unintentonally awkward as Orodreth is unintentionally creepy.
> 
>  


	3. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin recovers, but Finrod's healing has left a trace neither of them can deny…

Celegorm woke up from his pleasant 30-hour nap in confusion, this mostly because he had no idea where he was. Looking around, he recognized several of his own possessions, but the room itself was unfamiliar. Only when Huan came out of the antechamber, happily wagging his tail with a basket in his maw, he remembered.

“Damn you, Findarato.”

The basket held an appetizing breakfast of sweet fruit and pastry, and a small apology card from Finrod.

_“Sorry for sedating you. I hope you slept well. Enjoy your breakfast!_

_PS: Your brother is fine.”_

He glared at Huan.

“I hold you complicit. Just so you know.”

The hound gave him a big, wet lick. Celegorm snorted.

“Yeah, yeah, it was for my own good, I get it.”

He bit in a sweet roll, then offered another one to Huan.

“Here.” He grumbled. “Although Eru knows you don’t deserve it. You’ve probably snuck food from every gullible citizen of Nargothrond while I was out.”

Huan had the decency to look somewhat apologetic, before wolfing down the pastry in one bite. The blond Fëanorian shook his head.

“You could eat all day and still act like you haven’t seen food in an age. Even Curvo in puberty wasn’t that ridiculously ravenous.”

He sighed, his mind turning to Curufin. “Your brother is fine.” what was that even supposed to mean? Unchanged? Worse but still alive? Cured against all odds? He had no idea…  

Entering the healing halls, he braced himself for the worst. However, he was met with the one thing he hadn’t dared to hope for. Curufin was conscious and coherent, sitting propped up in bed against a heap of pillows while Celebrimbor was apparently giving him a rundown of the political developments he had missed. Celegorm let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He wouldn’t have to bury his brother. Not today, and not any time soon by the looks of it. The relief was almost tangible, a weight falling off his chest. He allowed himself a smile and warmly patted Huan on the head.

“Remind me to thank Findarato.” He paused. “For the breakfast. It was a good breakfast.”

… … … … … … 

Curufin recovered; after another week of bed rest the last traces of the poison were out of his system, and he was back on his feet. His powerful, dominating presence was undiminished, and he wasted no time spreading his influence and solidifying his position in Nargothrond’s political life. Anyone who had thought a close brush with Mandos would have mellowed the Fëanorian’s cruelly cutting character had been sorely mistaken. To Finrod, it was as if the fragile, scarred being he had held in his arms that night had never existed, as if the miserably affection-starved version of his ruthless cousin had merely been a product of the poison’s fever. It felt like betrayal. Finrod knew he should be glad his cousin didn’t seem to remember the liberties he had taken, but all the same it hurt. Every cold, calculated word the Fëanorian spoke, every superficial conversation felt like a wrench twisting his innards.

It was most likely a residual effect of their improvised mental linking. Bringing your mind so close to another was never without risks, and they had not exactly done it under ideal circumstances. Some backlash could have been expected... Finrod just wished it wouldn’t make him feel so shattered every time.

When Curufin requested a private audience after the council meeting, he thought nothing of it. A modicum of discretion was necessary to keep the peace between the different guilds and factions in Nargothrond, and more sensitive matters were often addressed with him in private. Given that there was still tension between the original citizens and the formerly Fëanorian-ruled new arrivals, it was no surprise that Curufin would want to have his say.

Finrod had prepared himself for another cold, business-like encounter, no different from the other interactions he had had with his cousin. Yet from the moment Curufin closed the door of the office behind him, something else hung in the air. Something about the Fëanorian felt different here than it did in public… The change made his hackles rise in discomfort. Curufin graciously bowed his head.

“Findarato.”

With the absence of honorifics, the tone was set. If this was about politics, it would be played personal. Finrod returned the gesture, burying his growing apprehension under a layer of cool politeness.

“Curufinwë.”

They cautiously eyed each other. Curufin was the first to speak.

“I didn’t come here to talk politics.”

A calm, measured admission.

“Then what did you want to see me for?”

Finrod didn’t think he could deal with his cousin’s games right now. Whatever it was the Fëanorian wanted, he better be upfront about it. Uncharacteristically, Curufin hesitated before answering. 

“I… I owe you my life.”

The unexpected words shook Finrod to the bone. For all that it was probably true, he had never thought his cousin would openly acknowledge it. He shook his head.

“I just did what any healer would have done. You owe me nothing.”

Curufin had almost imperceptibly closed the distance between them and now stood far too near for comfort. He sharply met his gaze.  

“Don’t talk around this. I know what you did.”

Cold dread washed over Finrod, and only by sheer force of will he kept his face straight.

“What do you mean?”

“I felt you.” The sharpness in Curufin’s eyes was jagged like broken glass. “I felt you in my mind. I know you anchored my fëa when I was lost in the fever.”

Finrod’s heart beat so loudly he was certain the Fëanorian could hear it too.

“I… I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“Any other would have let me die. Considered it a mercy, even. One less kinslayer, a mercy for the world.” A mirthless grin ghosted over Curufin’s face, but there was no strength behind it. “Why did you do it? No one would have faulted you for my death.”

Finrod couldn’t keep up the pretence.

“I couldn’t let you die.” He tiredly closed his eyes. “I never meant to invade your mind without permission, but you were slipping, and I couldn’t let you die.”

_I don’t know why. I just wanted you to live._

When he looked up again, something in Curufin’s expression had shifted, tensed up as if it cost him effort to keep his emotions in check. It was almost unnoticeable, but it was there and sent shivers down his spine. Futilely, he added,

“I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t read the expression in his cousin’s eyes.

“You would apologize for saving my life?”

“Never.” It was out before he could help it. “But I would apologize for what pain or discomfort I may have caused you in the process.”

_I never meant to cause you pain. I only wanted to take it away._

Curufin was silent, just watching him with that indecipherable look on his face. Then he spoke again.

“You didn’t stay.”

Of all the things he could have said, that did it. Those words, the small tremor in them, hacked away the ground underneath Finrod’s feet.

“I didn’t think you really wanted me to.”

He could feel himself falling and he didn’t care. Without conscious thought his hand moved, reaching up to gently stroke the side of his cousin’s face. The Fëanorian startled at the touch but didn’t pull away. He looked at him with fire in his eyes, his voice a breathless whisper.

“I begged you.”

And only then Finrod understood. Understood the depth of what his cousin had asked of him that night, and what he had so casually disregarded. To stay. To not let him suffer the agony of his wounded fëa on his own. To please not leave him alone. He had felt it, and he had simply ignored his plea, deluded himself into thinking it meant nothing for the sake of propriety and silly rules. _He had rejected him._ The realization was like cold water dumped over his head.

“I didn’t understand.”

But now he did, and with that he also understood what this must cost Curufin, how the Fëanorian must have fought his pride to come here like this. He reached out, soft tendrils of thought stroking his cousin’s strained being.

_“I am so sorry. Please let me make it right.”_

Curufin’s mind broke open under the light touch, his barriers falling away as if only the thinnest of strings held them together. There was so much distrust and anger in every fibre of his being… but his need to be cared for, his need to feel safe, was greater. A surge of protectiveness ran through Finrod. This had asked the very last of Curufin’s ability to trust. One misstep now would forever damage him beyond repair or healing… He gently drew him in.

_“Sssh… Let go. I will care for you.”_

Curufin readily surrendered to Finrod’s embrace. Their minds tangled again, instinctively finding the same reassuring closeness they had had that one fever-addled night. And it would have been enough… if only, when the last distance between them was closed, their lips hadn’t found each other too. It was a gentle brush, almost accidental… but the fleeting contact sparked a need, an overwhelming desire amplified in the feedback-loop of their connected minds. In moments they were kissing like famished, starving for each other’s taste. It was all wrong, and yet… it felt so good. Finrod couldn’t resist it. He didn’t _want_ to resist it. He hungrily savoured Curufin, his last misgivings drowned in the flood of wonderful sensation that rushed through his fëa. His cousin shuddered in his arms, high on the heady mixture of pleasure and mental intimacy. He needily bucked his hips, aching for friction.

_“Findarato… please…”_

Spurred on by the hungry longing in his cousin’s voice, Finrod grinded his hips against Curufin’s, pushing him against the desk.

_“Like that, cousin?”_

Only a wanton moan passed the Fëanorian’s lips. Not stopping the tantalizing motion, Finrod undid the top buttons of his cousin’s robe, revealing the creamy skin of his neck. He gently ran his tongue over it… Then bit down, hard. Curufin’s mind sparked brightly, the sudden intensity of feeling almost sending him over the edge.

_“Ah… F-Findarato… I… please… ah… yes….”_

His cousin’s need was intoxicating. Finrod captured his lips in a passionate kiss while nimbly undoing the rest of the buttons. Then he reached for Curufin’s breeches and freed his erection. In a couple strokes he had him completely beyond words, reduced to breathy moans and gasps of broken Quenya. He was rock hard himself, closer to completion with each wave of pleasure that reverberated through their linked minds. Finrod stole a moment to take in the sight of his cousin. Curufin’s skin was flushed, his eyes bright and unfocused, his face slack in delight. He was lost to the world, clinging only to him. The king softly smiled.

_“Come for me, Curufinwë.”_

Curufin screamed when he came, before the sensation became too much and his mind blanked out in bliss. Finrod was pulled along in it, his whole body reacting to his cousin’s orgasm. For one beautiful instant his world was drowned in pleasure, and he couldn’t do anything but hold on to Curufin and hungrily moan his name as he spent himself.

When he came back to his senses, Finrod found he had sunk to the floor, back resting against his massive desk, Curufin heavy in his arms. It felt… nice. He sighed in content.  He vaguely knew there were things he should be doing, important things… but his mind was slow and comfortably muddled, and he couldn’t bring it to even think on them. Instead he gently stroked his cousin’s tousled hair. The Fëanorian was still overcome, only slowly drifting back to full awareness. He was utterly relaxed, and Finrod couldn’t shake the thought that he had something of a sleepy cat, languidly stretching himself in warm sunshine. He smiled.

_“Awake yet, cousin?”_

Curufin hazily mumbled something.

_“Hmmm… Findarato…”_

Finrod answered him with a tender mental caress. They basked in the afterglow, and for a while a wordless exchange of soft, caring touches was all what passed between them. Eventually though the fog cleared from their minds, and Finrod gave serious thought to the fact they lay on the floor of his office, half undressed and covered in sperm. He also wasn’t sure the door was locked.

_“Don’t leave me.”_

Curufin seemed to have caught on the direction of his thoughts. This time Finrod could hear the hint of anxiety in his voice, even through the warm haze of satisfaction. He pulled him a little closer.

_“I won’t.”_

He would not make that mistake again. Not if he could help it.

 … … … … … … 

They had a strange dynamic. In matters political Curufin was still without mercy. He dominated conversations and schemed behind the scenes as he always had, threatening and sweet-talking his way into power with all the elegance of a skilled dancer in a demanding choreography. To any observer, his relationship with the King was tense, and ever on the tipping edge of hostile. Finrod let them think. He knew very well that the harshness in his cousin’s gaze was not enmity, and his political opposition not meant to overthrow him. Curufin needed this, needed to let his sharp, brilliant mind do what it was best at. His pride would not allow for anything else. He was Curufinwë Fëanorion, and a son of Fëanor showed no weakness. Finrod would never ask it of him either. If anything, his cousin’s ruthless, unbending ways made him fully appreciate the enormity of the trust placed in him. In private Curufin would drop his masks and shields and yield to him, willingly surrender himself in mind and body. It was a need he couldn’t seem to deny, for all that he did try. It could take a while, but the Fëanorian always found his way back to him, something shattered in his eyes that Finrod could never tell was defeat or victory. He never commented on it. He just held him, and cared for him as he had said he would for as long as time and circumstances allowed.

Finrod didn’t know what they were to each other, what their bizarre relationship could be called or categorized as. It was too sharp for friendship, too intimate for family, and he couldn’t for all he would call it something vague like “partnership”, quite simply because it wasn’t. It was a perfectly well defined thing and yet it had no definition, no name.

Maybe it was better like that. A name was a promise after all, and they made no promises. They were too familiar with the scars those left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finrod/Curufin FTW! That scene got away from me, like much in this story. I only wanted them to talk, but quite suddenly stuff happened and they were kissing and groping each other. I have no excuse. Also, no regrets. xD
> 
> Now, for an explanation. 
> 
> Curufin would never have allowed someone to comfort him, normally. Rather, he would have cruelly lashed out at anyone offering him kindness, because he loathes himself for secretly wanting it. His pride and anger would have made giving in to what he perceives as an unforgivable weakness impossible. 
> 
> However, when Finrod soothed his pain during the fever and reached into the deepest innards of his mind to comfort him, his resolve broke. It's much easier to deny yourself something you have never experienced, after all. He tries, but now he intimately knows what he could have, what it's like to feel safe and loved and not be in pain, no amount of stubborn Fëanorian pride can keep him from it. Even though he is angry with himself, and Finrod, he can't resist the need. (It's kind of like an addiction...) It would be driving him insane, if it wasn't also healing him. 
> 
> The power dynamics are kind of weird. Behind closed doors Curufin submits to Finrod; not in an actual BDSM context, but mentally and physically he yields completely to him. In their mental contact, Finrod always holds the power. Outside however Curufin makes up for it by being extra harsh and ruthless, and Finrod doesn't really oppose him. 
> 
> I hope this whole block of text made some sense... 
> 
> On a side note: I fear Celegorm accidentally became a comic relief character. 
> 
> Please review! I'm updating rather quickly because I still have no internet at home, which in combination with the nearing exams makes that I have few opportunities to come online and update anything. I may not be online for quite some time, so I take every chance to throw what I wrote at you people! 
> 
> PS: I kind of wanted Celebrimbor to walk in on them in the office. Does that make me a bad person?
> 
> PPS: I could end it here, it wouldn't be a bad ending… But of course, I'm not going to. What sort of ending would you people prefer? Doomy, angst-ridden and full of tragedy, or rather hopeful, optimistic, and relatively happy? I have terrible doubts about what direction I should take this story…


	4. Courage and Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor is awkward. Orodreth is afraid. Curufin and Finrod are something else entirely. Is this the beginning, or the beginning of the end?

“You’re not as stupid as people say.”

Orodreth looked up from his book, eyebrows raised.

“Ehm. Thank you, I guess?”

Celebrimbor bit his lip. That did not come out as he had hoped it would. Stuttering slightly, he tried to mitigate his statement.

“I… I meant, you’re not, not stupid at all. D-Despite what people say, I mean. T-They do say that. And I… eh…”

Orodreth calmly took him in. He didn’t have a very expressive face, and right now Celebrimbor couldn’t tell if he was insulted, amused, or something else entirely. It was highly unnerving.

“I see.”

Celebrimbor felt his cheeks heat up.

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

A small, melancholic smile graced Orodreth’s lips.

“I know.”

It was past midnight and they were sitting in a secluded section of the great library, a little reading nook with two comfortable wing chairs tucked away in a forgotten part of the collection. Unless someone dearly wished to consult a monograph on the taxation laws of Belegost, they wouldn’t stumble across it. Celebrimbor wasn’t sure how exactly it had happened, but the small alcove had become the location of regular nightly meetings between him and Orodreth. Following their first encounter, the young smith had found himself going to the library more often, usually after dark, and more often than not meeting the blond elf lord somewhere along the way. It always had something of a coincidence when they crossed paths, even though by now Celebrimbor was quite certain they me on purpose. After a polite greeting they would quietly navigate the library together, and as soon as they had both found something to read, they’d settle down between the dusty tomes on dwarvish fiscal policy. Sometimes they spoke, but usually not.

Though they didn’t seem to share much besides insomnia, Orodreth was strangely pleasant company. Celebrimbor enjoyed the easy, unforced silence of their meetings. He had even gotten somewhat used to the blond’s startling habit of suddenly showing up out of nowhere. In their so-called accidental encounters he had also gotten the chance to observe him outside of the council. It was this that had led him to the ill-advised statement on the elf lord’s suspected stupidity. He questioningly looked at his companion. 

“I just… You’re intelligent enough, why do you allow people to disregard and speak ill of you? I don’t understand it.”

Now Orodreth frowned slightly.

“I don’t feel the need to defend my turf with every word I utter.”

Feeling daring, Celebrimbor retorted,

“No, you don’t defend it at all.”

The blond sighed, putting away his book. He coolly met his eyes.

“I am not a politician, Tyelpë. The only reason I am involved in the council is my relation to the King. I have no talent for the mind games people like your father play.

“But…”

He shook his head.

“A modicum of intelligence is not enough to survive in that snake pit. I would rather not play along and be taken for a fool, than try and prove myself one.”

Celebrimbor considered that.

“That’s… sort of wise, I suppose…” He paused. “But… you’re next in line to the throne now, aren’t you?”

“Unfortunately.”

Too late, the young smith realized Orodreth only held that position because of the painfully recent deaths of his father and uncle. He again flushed red in embarrassment.

“I… I’m sorry. I seem to be putting my foot in my mouth a lot tonight.”

Orodreth’s small smile somehow seemed more genuine now.

“Now you know why I prefer not to speak too much.” He sighed. “And yes, I am next in line to the throne. Valar forbid anything ever happens to Findarato.”

“I don’t think you’d be so terrible a king.” Celebrimbor shrugged. “Just my opinion.”

The blond elf softly shook his head.

“I inspire awe nor admiration. At least one is necessary to be a good king. And I lack the strength and cunning to be a bad king and still stay in power.”

It was a poignantly honest self-observation, but it was also rather… evasive.

“My grandfather used to say the only battle you are sure to lose is one you don’t think you can win.”

Orodreth chuckled dryly at that.

“I’m sure he sounds like a trustworthy source of wisdom to people who don’t know your lineage.”

Celebrimbor suppressed an inappropriate giggle, but didn’t continue on it. Fëanor was too ambiguous a topic for this kind of conversation. Instead he shrugged.

“You know, I’m not a politician either. I’m a craftsman; I’ll always be a craftsman before anything else. I never cared about politics. If my father hadn’t fallen ill I wouldn’t have set a single foot in the council chambers.”

“You’re skilled though. I have seen you speak. You’re good at it.”

“Truly, I’m not. Not really.” He self-consciously fuddled with a bookmark. “I just… couldn’t afford to be terrible at it, I guess.”

Orodreth cocked his head to the side.

“Because you could not shame your family?”

There was a hint of something in the blond’s voice that sounded a lot like pity. Celebrimbor didn’t like it. He sharply shook his head.

“No. Because my father was ill and our people looked to me to stand up for them and defend their interests in his stead. If anything, it was them I couldn’t shame.” He glanced down at his book, forgotten in his lap. “I’m not my father; I don’t enjoy politics and I doubt I ever will. But… it seems there is no greater motivation to not suck at something than having people’s wellbeing depend on your skill.”

When he looked up again, Orodreth’s blue-grey eyes were sad and distant. He was silent for a while. Then he softly said,

“I must seem like a coward to you.”

As the words shivered in the air, Celebrimbor considered them. His father called Orodreth a weak-willed fool. He was someone who avoided the fight, someone with little conviction or resolve. Yet… did that make him a coward? 

“You can’t be a coward if you have never really needed to be brave.”

The blond seemed surprised at that.

“How do you mean?”

He nervously shifted. The blond’s frail appearance may have belied it, but Orodreth was still older, more experienced, and higher in rank than him, and he felt slightly uneasy sprouting such ideas. 

“It’s…” He hesitated. “You don’t _have_ to be a good politician, because Findarato is. And you don’t _have_ to defend yourself against slander, because it doesn’t seem to bother you that much. From what I can see there is no real reason why you should be brave, right now. You might be avoiding conflict, but that’s not necessarily cowardice.” He bit his lip. “I think true cowardice is backing away from a challenge that actually matters, to you or to people who depend on you.”

Orodreth didn’t say anything for a while. Then he quietly admitted,

“I am afraid I will fall short, if I am ever truly challenged as such.”

Celebrimbor awkardly looked at his feet.

“Aren’t we all?”

They didn’t speak after that. It was the first time their silence felt uncomfortable.

 … … … … … … 

It wasn’t right. Finrod knew that. Not because they were related, and not because they were both male, and not even because they were political opponents as well as king and subject. All those potential reasons were weak and superficial, matters of appearance only. Rather, it was because Curufin’s affections were not unlike those of a drunk for his liquor, a volatile mixture of love and hatred and inexorable _need_. Their relationship was one of dependence; his cousin used him, and he enabled his addiction. It wasn’t right, or healthy. But he couldn’t stop. He knew in the depth of his being that he couldn’t, not even if he had wanted to. He was, in a way, as dependent on Curufin as the Fëanorian was on him. The bed he had slept in for years felt too big now when he lay in it on his own. His mind, long accustomed to being without the mental warmth of parents and siblings, now felt cold and lonely by itself. He craved Curufin.

When they were together, it felt as if their Doom couldn’t get to them, if only for a little while. When he was alone, Finrod wondered if perhaps this whole relationship _was_ their Doom. It wouldn’t even surprise him.  

_The Valar need not lift a finger to hinder us. We gladly dig our own graves and lay in them too._

 … … … … … … 

“Sometimes I hate you.”

As the resentful words lingered in the air, Finrod turned to his cousin. They were naked in bed, the tangled silken sheets witness to what had happened there earlier. Curufin had his back to him.

“You, and all you do to me. Sometimes I hate you so much that it hurts. And the more I hurt, the more I need you.” He made a choked sound. “Isn’t that hilarious? Somewhere in Aman, the Valar must be mocking me.”

Finrod gently stroked his lover’s back, tracing his taut, well-defined muscles.

“It’s not weakness to want to be free of pain.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Despite the sharpness of his voice Curufin relaxed almost involuntarily, the tension seeping out of his form under the soothing touch. He weakly shivered. “It is the one thing that will break me, when it comes to it.”

“It will not come to that.”

The Fëanorian laughed bitterly.

“You know as well as I do that it will. This… whatever it is… is an illusion. Outside your doors, it doesn’t exist. It can’t.”

Finrod could feel the weight of the Doom in those words, the restless Oath that had dug its claws deeply in Curufin’s fëa. He ignored it, nipped off the nagging shoots of foresight. Tenderly kissing his cousin’s neck, he whispered in his ear.

“But for now, it’s the only thing that’s real.”

Curufin turned to him, silver eyes burning with conflict.

“Findarato…”

_“Sssh…”_

Finrod kissed him.

_“Let this be a safe place, even if nowhere else is.”_

Curufin yielded, eyes falling shut in surrender as he needily answered the kiss.

_“Please…”_

_“Sssh…”_

Finrod made love to him, with slow, unhurried precision. Leisurely exploring his cousin’s body, he relished every touch and every taste of him. He made his kisses a sweet torment, every caress an agonizing delight of tangled thought and sensation, until the only thing the Fëanorian still knew was him and the only word on his lips was his name, moaned and screamed as his senses were flooded in pleasure.

Afterwards he held him close, safely gathered in his arms. Curufin’s thoughts were vague and contented, small waves of dreamy, wordless osanwë lapping against Finrod’s mind. He was hardly conscious anymore. The blond pressed a kiss on his cousin’s lips.

_“Sleep, Curufinwë. You’re exhausted.”_

A gentle nudge was enough. Curufin didn’t resist, welcoming the warm darkness of healing sleep as it swept over his mind. Connected as they were, it wasn’t long before Finrod began to feel drowsy as well. He didn’t fight it. He knew that if he stayed awake, he would only think. Of this. Of _them_. Of the moment they would have to part, and the moment they would part for the last time. Of Doom. Of the things that awaited them outside his bedroom, and the unease that was ever on the edge of his mind along with the ever-so-tempting option of Sight. It was better to sleep. As his thoughts gradually lost coherence and his mind slowed down to the steady cadence of his cousin’s heartbeat, he closed his eyes. Just for a little while, he didn’t want to think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light on the relationship of Orodreth and Celebrimbor. Also, a bit of Finrod/Curufin for your enjoyment! I hope I caught the power dynamics right…


	5. Love and Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod visits Curufin in the forge. Coincidentally, so does Celebrimbor.

It had been more than two weeks since they had last met in private. When Curufin then sent his son in his stead to two consecutive council meetings and Finrod caught word that he also hadn’t left his smithy in a week, he decided to pay him a visit. After all, as his king, healer and concerned relative it was no more than normal to check up on him, wasn’t it?

Rather than announcing his presence in the craft halls and disturbing everyone’s work, Finrod used his master key to quietly sneak himself and a basket of food into the Fëanorian’s closed workshop. There, the heat almost smacked him in the face. It was sweltering in the smithy. Several strategically placed lampstones lit up cryptic schematics hung from the walls, tools and materials were scattered around in organized chaos, and he spotted a forgotten plate with a piece of bread and a mouldy apple half buried under a pile of scribbled notes. Curufin was hammering away at something by the light of his forge’s roaring fire. He was so completely absorbed in his craft that he hadn’t noticed Finrod coming in, which gave the latter ample chance to observe him.

The interplay of firelight and flickering shadows gave the Fëanorian an otherworldly lustre; his eyes shone white-hot like molten metal, their radiance almost as burning as the forge’s flames. Sweat glistened on his skin, rolling in pearly drops from his tight muscles. Here was no trace of the impeccably groomed councilmember… Curufin’s raven hair was tied out of his face with a simple leather ribbon, and he only wore a sleeveless shirt and tight breeches under his apron. Finrod unabashedly feasted his eyes on his cousin’s firm, toned body. His entire appearance was one of intense focus, as if not just the arm swinging the hammer but his entire being was involved in the crafting process. It had something entrancing; the rhythmic movements, the repetitive clanging of metal on metal, the oppressive heat permeated by the scents of soot and sweat… Finrod would have gladly watched him for hours. As it was however, Curufin finished shaping his project quickly after the king had entered, and in turning away from his anvil he took note of his visitor. His reaction was… not immediately courteous.

“You! How did you get in here? Who let you in?”

There wasn’t even a pretence of politeness in his manner. His whole form had instantly tensed up as if preparing for attack; distress at having his private sanctuary intruded on cleverly cloaked in anger. Finrod calmly smiled, knowing full well that would only serve to enrage him further.

“I let myself in. Small perk of kingship.”

Curufin’s eyes flashed dangerously. He gritted his teeth.

“What did you come here for?”

Finrod held up his basket in offering.

“Your son said you refused entry to the servants who delivered the meals, so I brought you food. Thought you might be hungry by now.”

His cousin’s lip curled derisively.

“Is that something the King of Nargothrond does for his subjects, bring them food when they refuse to eat?”

His tone was caustic. Finrod sighed.

“It’s something _I_ do for _my cousin_ , because I care that he eats enough.”

“I have no need for food. Please leave.”

The “please” had nothing of a request. It was a threat, the only warning he would issue. Finrod knew he was –quite literally- playing with fire by doing this… but he wouldn’t let himself be cowed. Tilting his head, he remarked,    

“You haven’t properly eaten in a week. You do have need for food.”

“You don’t decide what I need.”

Curufin was an inch from baring his teeth at him. The burning ardour he had been pouring into his craft now trembled and sparked around him, restless under his skin, bright in his eyes like madness. A warm shiver ran down Finrod’s spine at the sight.

“I don’t decide it. But I care that you get it.”

Though meant as an admission of concern for his cousin’s wellbeing, the words sounded unintentionally seductive in the shadowed heat of the forge. Curufin stepped back, his eyes glittering like gems in the dark.

“No. Leave.”

His voice was low and menacing, a growl almost. Finrod frowned.

“Why? So you can work yourself into a collapse only a few months after you almost perished from poison? Your reserves are not what they were, you can’t afford to tax your body as you do and not take care of yourself.”

“And you’re to take care of me?”

“Since you don’t do so yourself…”

All of a sudden Curufin was frightfully close. Before Finrod could even finish his sentence he had him pressed against the door, lips hotly next to his ear, hissing angrily.

“You have no right. How dare you come _here_ , like _this_ , offering yourself like it’s just another one of your pointless acts of kindness.” His grip tightened. “Just another great deed of the blessed Findarato, extending his charity to his ill-fated kin.” He trembled, snarling. “How dare you.”

Finrod said nothing, but he met his cousin’s heated gaze without flinching until something in those smouldering silver eyes broke. The Fëanorian let go with a harsh curse, his whole body shaking when he drew away from the blond.  

“Why did you come _here_?”  The words felt raw, like the innards of a gutted beast, skinned of all pretence. Curufin’s eyes burned. “Must you have everything of me?”

His voice was but a whisper, defeat already conceded between the lines. Finrod reached out to him in mind, thought stroking thought in a feather-light caress.

_“I only mean to care for you. Not because you can’t, but because I want to. I don’t want you to suffer or lack for anything.”_

Even as his mind was already giving in to the gentle touch, Curufin muttered bitterly.

“And they accuse me of cruelty.”

Pulling him into an embrace, Finrod shook his head.

_“It’s not cruelty.”_

Curufin’s hands tangled in his hair when they kissed, slender fingers hooking in his jewelled braids.

_“Then what is it?”_

_“Affection.”_

_“That might be the greatest cruelty of all.”_

Though even as he bit down on Finrod’s lips and pulled at his golden tresses, the Fëanorian’s mental voice no longer held any trace of anger. His eyes were alight in desire, mind and body yielding to the hungry need that uncoiled under Finrod’s skilful ministrations. A shuddering breath passed his lips.

“Findarato…”

Finrod drew him closer in response, teasingly grinding his hips.

“Yes, cousin?”

Curufin’s answering smile was a little too toothy, too ravenous to be nice.

“You wear… too much clothing.”

He tore at Finrod’s robes, ripping the cerulean silk and sending a cascade of tiny golden buttons and beads to the floor in the progress. There was something frantic about his lust, as if by giving in to it with violence he might keep the upper hand… Finrod didn’t mind. Basking in the Fëanorian’s unrestrained heat, he answered his passion with equal ferocity. In no time he had his cousin stripped of his heavy leather apron and comfortable shirt, baring hard muscle and smooth skin to his touch.

Curufin kissed him harshly, exerting a dominance that belied the way his mind lay open in surrender. In response, Finrod pulled away from his lips and sensually ran his tongue over his cousin’s auricle instead. When he playfully bit down on the sensitive tip of his ear, a whimper escaped the Fëanorian. He smiled.

“Tell me cousin… what do you want?”

Laced with subtle power, the murmured words were enough to draw another needful moan from his cousin’s lips. The sound had Finrod shivering in delight. Maddeningly slowly he rolled his hips against Curufin, drawing out the sensation.   

_“Go on… Tell me.”_

Just a moment, Curufin strained himself to keep from speaking… then the words came out anyway.

“I… I want you, Findarato.”

_I want you. I want to feel nothing but you. I want to be yours._

His gaze was longing and accusatory at the same time, the forced admission as hurtful to his pride as it was soothing to his fëa. Kissing him deeply, Finrod caressed away the hints of discontent.

_“Then have me, cousin. Have me and be mine.”_

With those words, Curufin's last resistance was vanquished. He softly sighed, his mind giving in fully to the warm, pleasurable sway of Finrod’s powers.

_“Mhhhm… so good…Findarato…”_

They needily rutted against each other, Finrod no less affected by the increased entanglement than his cousin. He almost shredded their breeches trying to get them off, every delay of further touch sending agonizing spikes of unfulfilled desire through their linked minds. Curufin trembled in the embrace, his cock twitching.

_“Need more… Please… F-Findarato… ah… please…”_

He stroked him, his own length throbbing with every wanton sigh and whimper his cousin produced. Just when Curufin was close to the edge, he held back. The Fëanorian let out a whine of protest and impatiently bucked his hips, yet Finrod didn’t budge. Savoring the moment, he met his cousin’s lust-clouded gaze.

_“I want you to hold on to me, Curufinwë. Hold on to my mind. You’re going to come, but I’m not done with you yet. Don’t let go.”_

As the instruction sank in he resumed, finishing him off with a couple hard strokes. Curufin cried out when the orgasm hit him, his eyes unfocusing and glazing over in bliss. Finrod had to grit his teeth to hold back his own peak when the Fëanorian’s pleasure reverberated through his mind...  

_“Fin…da…rato…”_

Curufin’s eyes were almost all pupil, dilated in desire. His voice sounded faint and faraway, and he was barely keeping himself standing, clinging to Finrod as if the blond was the last stable thing in the world. Steadying him, Finrod captured his slightly parted lips in a tender kiss.

_“Very good. Don’t let go.”_

With his hand still coated in his cousin’s come, he reached for Curufin’s arse and sought his entrance. He was careful in breaching him, slipping his finger in his cousin’s cavity one knuckle at the time. The Fëanorian gasped and whimpered at the intrusion but welcomed it nevertheless, instinctively tilting his hips to feel more, to make the finger slide in deeper. Finrod smiled against his lips.

_“Like that, huh?”_

Slipping in a second finger, Finrod moved slowly until he touched on the sensitive knob inside. The lightest brush was enough to make Curufin jerk in his arms; purposefully stroking it made the most deliciously inarticulate sounds fall from his lips. He was hard again, closer to the edge with every well-aimed touch; one word, one softly whispered command would be enough now to bring him to completion once more… However, Finrod didn't plan to make it so easy this time. Feeling how the building sensation was becoming too much for his cousin, he retracted his fingers.

_“Don’t come. I’m not done with you.”_

Curufin helplessly shuddered in his arms, whimpering brokenly. His mind was reeling, so overcome with pure, visceral need that the lack of fulfilment was painful. Finrod wasted no more time; pushing him up against the anvil, he quickly slicked his cock and thrust into his cousin’s tightness. The Fëanorian screamed, nails digging in the skin of his back, but he didn’t mind. The feeling was overwhelming, warm and bright and excruciatingly wonderful… As Curufin clenched around him, whining needfully, his control slipped. Gripping his cousin tightly he pounded into him in wild abandon, all rational thought drowned in the intensity of the feeling. Pleasure overtook their connected minds and he lost himself in it; the world narrowed down to only _him_ , only _Curufin_ , his scent, his taste, his warm tightness… all else stopped existing. 

It was _perfect_.

… … … … … … …  

Curufin only left his workshop unlocked when he was both inside and amenable to visitors. This happened so rarely that when Celebrimbor knocked on his father’s workshop door and found it unlocked, he didn’t think twice before entering. This, however, turned out to be a grave mistake.

His father was inside all right, but Celebrimbor didn’t think the state he was in counted as “amenable to visitors”. Half on the largest anvil, Curufin was stark naked, and in progress of being fucked senseless by an equally naked golden-haired ellon. Though he seemed to look in his direction, the Fëanorian didn’t see his son; his eyes were wide and glazed over in rapture, his whole face slack in mindless bliss.

Celebrimbor was as paralyzed, unable to turn his head from the scene. He couldn’t look away from his father’s ecstatic expression, couldn’t tune out the chorus of heated moans and whimpers, couldn’t escape the thick, hot smell of sweat and come that assaulted his nostrils... He was so shocked that he didn’t even realize at first that his father’s partner was none other than the king of Nargothrond himself. Only when that bit of knowledge filtered through, he found the strength to move out of the room and shut the door behind him.

He practically ran out of the craft halls, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from what he had seen as possible. Almost instinctively, his legs carried him to the library. He didn’t stop until he reached the hidden nook between the dwarvish tax books; once there, he curled up in one of the wing chairs and desperately tried to clear his mind.

The scene was burned into his memory with razor sharp clarity. He kept seeing his father, the way he had clung to Finrod, the unhidden, unrestrained pleasure in his eyes. It was almost as if he could still feel the sticky, cloying heat on his skin…  though he wasn’t sure if that was the memory of the forge or the flush of his own embarrassment. How was he ever supposed to face his father again? One look and Curufin would know that he had seen. Why had he left his door open? His father never, ever left his door open! He even closed his door to take a nap! Did he perhaps _want_ people to see them? Valar… Celebrimbor quickly repressed that thought. This was bad enough.

Lost in thought, he yelped when out of nowhere someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

Orodreth. Of course. The blond elf’s impassive face was marred by a slight frown of concern as he looked down on him. Trying his hardest to collect himself, Celebrimbor stuttered,

“I… I’m f-fine. P-perfectly fine.”

“You don’t quite look fine.” Orodreth elegantly seated himself in the other chair. “Has something happened?”

Immediately, the scene in the forge drew back to his mind’s eye. Blood rushed to his face.

“I… I don’t want to talk about it.”

The blond nodded in understanding, and didn’t ask any more. Leaning back in the chair, he picked up the book he had left there at their last meeting and pointed his attention to the pages rather than his mortified companion. The undemanding, silent presence had a calming effect on Celebrimbor. After a while, the young smith had collected himself enough to hesitantly pose a question.

“Have you ever… had an idea about someone that didn’t turn out correct at all?”

Orodreth lifted his head. Nearly without expression he assented,

“I have. I once met someone I thought must be very sly and manipulative. He turned out to be rather the contrary.”

“What… What did you do, when you found out?”

Now a small smile played on Orodreth’s lips.

“I made friends with him.”

That was the moment Celebrimbor realized the blond was talking about him. He felt the blush creep back to his cheeks.

“You thought I was sly and manipulative?”

The older elf mildly shrugged.

“You are very much like your father in looks and talents, but you have a kinder, more sympathetic manner in dealing with people. I believed that for one of your family, such manner had to mean that you were even sneakier than your relatives.”

“But then you got to know me, and found that I’m really just gullible and awkward.”

Orodreth raised an eyebrow at the self-deprecating description.

“Those are not the words I would use. But if you mean to say you aren’t glib and distrusting like your father, you are correct.” He slightly bent his head. “No offence.”

Celebrimbor sighed.

“None taken. Can’t argue with the truth, I guess.”

Though he was starting to question how true that “truth” really was. His father had never given but the slightest hint that he might be attracted to his cousin, on the contrary even. Rather than a friend or an ally, Curufin had seemed to think of Finrod as an obstacle on his path to power… For a moment, Celebrimbor considered the possibility that his father was using Finrod in some way to gain supremacy. Distasteful as it was, he sadly wouldn’t put it past him. Yet… he couldn’t console that thought with what he had seen in the workshop. His father had been well and truly lost in Finrod’s arms, completely at his mercy in the throws of passion. It had been real, too raw and unpolished to be an act… He pinched his eyes trying to dispel the image. It just didn’t make sense…

When he looked up again, he found Orodreth was patiently looking at him.

“Do you wish you were more like your father?”

He hesitated. What did that even mean; to be like his father? He was beginning to think that he had no idea what Curufin was really like… Eventually he  shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

He might not know his father’s true nature, but he knew very well that he didn’t want to be like this, so caught up in masks and pretences that not even the people closest to him could tell truth from fakery anymore.

“That’s good.” Orodreth’s smile had a melancholic tinge. “We are all but what we are after all, not much use griping about that.”

They sat together for a while longer after that, Orodreth quietly reading his book, Celebrimbor absorbed in his own thoughts. No more mention was made of the incident that had caused the young smith to run to the library in the first place. However, when they eventually parted and Celebrimbor made for the library doors, the blond prince casually remarked,

“It’s prudent to always knock before you enter.”

“What?”

A hint of a grin played around the blond’s lips.

“I have two children, Tyelpë. I unfortunately recognized that look.”

And with that, he left him. An exclamation that he did knock before entering died on Celebrimbor’s lips. He had embarrassed himself enough already…

 … … … … … … 

“Your hair… it’s so pretty…” Curufin dreamily smiled, winding his fingers through Finrod’s golden tresses. “Like… like there’s always light on it… even in the dark.”

They lay entwined on the thin cot in the corner of Curufin’s workshop, satiated and drowsy after their extended lovemaking. The fire was slowly dying down to embers, and only the softly glowing lampstones broke the thick darkness that lay over the forge like a protective blanket. Finrod felt delightfully languid, his limbs too heavy and his mind too fuzzy to do much other than smile and gently trail his fingers over his cousin’s exquisite body. Curufin in turn lay cuddled up in his arms with a happy, spaced-out look on his face, babbling a little aimlessly as he played with his hair.

“I think… Lady Vairë herself couldn’t spin a more beautiful gold.” The Fëanorian sighed, caressing the wavy strands between his fingers. “So bright…” Nestling a little closer in the embrace, he closed his eyes and smiled. “So… warm…”

Finrod wanted to hold him close and never let go. He wanted to keep him like this, safe in his arms, submersed in warm contentedness and far away from anything that could hurt him. He wanted them to stay like this forever… He settled for pressing a tender kiss on his cousin’s lips.

_“Sweet dreams, my dearest cousin.”_

Curufin’s smile widened a bit, though he didn’t open his eyes.

_“I’m your dearest?”_

Finrod softly chuckled.

_“You are my dearest. Now sleep.”_

As his cousin drifted to sleep, his fëa comfortably curled up against his own, the king sent a quiet plea to the Valar.

_Please let us be happy just a little while longer. Please._

Then he closed his eyes as well. No matter what would happen to them, he would relish every moment of happiness they were given.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, my first actual smut scene! I'm not sure if it's any good though… 
> 
> And, because of popular demand, we have Celebrimbor walking in on them. (I'm officially a terrible person. xD)  
> Celebrimbor is extremely confused. He just doesn't know what to think of his father anymore… 
> 
> Also, for clarification, I don't think Finduilas and Ereinion walked in on their father. However, they lived in a military fortress, and they were still relatively young at the time. I can't imagine they never walked in on a couple warriors having a go at it together, and Orodreth would have been the one to do "damage control" xD


End file.
